Death Comes on Swift Wings
by Dr. Franklinstein
Summary: Chief Medical Examiner, Maura Isles, moonlights as a serial killer bringing final justice to those who have eluded Boston's finest.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own any rights pertaining to 'Rizzoli & Isles' and 'Dexter'.

* * *

**Chapter 1: The Pair of Medics**

It's 2:16 in the morning as I stagger down a dimly light alley, breathing's sporadic as I clutch at the bloodied, artificial stab wound to the left side of my abdomen. Yes, that should do it. Mustering up my best panic-stricken voice, I pull out the latest burner phone from the left hip pocket of my moss green cargo pants and dial.

"9-1-1 what's your emergency?" A woman answers on the other end.

"I-I-I've been stabbed. Please send help. Hurry!" I beg convincingly before hanging up. Abandoning the theatrics, I find a blind spot in the ally and sit cross-legged on the damp gravelly pavement. Any minute now those two murderous paramedics will arrive and attempt to sedate me so they can harvest my organs for the black market. Ha! They're in for a nasty surprise when they find out they're the ones who'll be drugged.

Reaching down into the bottom pockets of my cargo pants near my calves, I grab the two syringes of animal tranquilizer and position them in each hand; the barrels supported between my middle and index fingers while my thumbs rest calmly on the head of the plungers. Now that my pre-kill routine is complete, I fully extend myself so that I lie flat on my back with my arms 'limp' by my side, deeply breathing in the brisk night air as I look up at the starry sky, resolutely waiting for my two targets.

It isn't long before I hear the faint noise of sirens, the sound provoking a wicked smirk to etch across my face.

I really need this kill. To say it's been a while would be an extreme understatement.

A few months ago, Jane shot my biological father. I was adopted at birth and had a normal childhood up until I was five. At this impressionable young age, I helplessly watched as a few disgruntled employees hacked my adoptive father to death, making it look like the M.O. of a local gang. My adoptive mother thought I was too young to remember any of it and would turn out to be 'normal' in due time. Oh how she was profoundly mistaken. Right around the time I turned thirteen, these uncontrollable urges started to surface within me; little did I know that I had someone looking out for me.

I remember my 'almost' first kill as if it happened yesterday. Carly was this snobby girl in my eighth grade fencing class who kept taunting me with 'Maura the bore-a'. One day I decided I had had enough and stalked her on her walk home after school. When we rounded the last corner to her house, I raised my sharpened pencil and lunged at her, only to be restrained by two muscular arms. I owe my life to Doyle. He appeared at the most critical time of my life and has since then has become an integral part of protecting my secret by instructing me on how to 'live by the code'; to never get caught and never kill an innocent.

Then the shit hit the fan that night all those months ago. I wanted Kevin Flynn all to myself, even had an abandoned fire station prepared for him, but Jane and her team also discovered he was the killer and was forced to forgo my plans. But I wasn't going to give up so easily. After convincing Jane that I wasn't the fragile little flower she makes me out to be, which frustrates me to no end sometimes, she agreed to let me go undercover to get a confession from Flynn.

I intended to get close enough to kill him in a way that made it look like self-defense, but there are times in our lives where everything seems to go wrong; when despite our best efforts, and for no apparent rhyme or reason, tragedy strikes.

While Doyle was in the hospital, he insisted that I do everything I could to preserve Jane's friendship, regardless of the fact that she was the one who shot him. Like hell that was going to happen; she almost killed the man who taught me how to rein in my impulses. Yet, he strongly advised that I forgive her as soon as possible because her friendship's vital to my survival. Ordinarily my emotions don't get the better of me, but they did at the time and I struggled to fully comprehend what he was saying. I didn't have a friendship with Detective Jane Rizzoli; I, Chief Medical Examiner Maura Isles, serial killer, am incapable of having personal connections.

Still, as days and weeks past, I slowly began to realize how paramount Jane's friendship was in my life. Before our falling out, my meticulous work during my autopsies was unprecedented, and my kills were perfunctory and exhilarating. Then as we constantly butted heads with one another after the shooting, my scrupulous skills dwindled to those of Doctor Pike's subpar abilities, and my kills became thoroughly dissatisfying and unfulfilling.

Finally grasping the severity of my situation with the detective, I reluctantly put a hold on tending to the needs of my dark passenger and started devoting my time and effort to mending my friendship with Jane.

Now here I am, lying in this dark ally, three months, two weeks later, and five days later; our friendship even stronger than before the incident, which has left me completely flummoxed. How is that possible? Could it be that I've actually made a genuine connection with another human being? In spite of what I don't know, I can unequivocally say how amazing it is to experience the familiar feeling of adrenaline pulsing through my veins again.

Ceasing my trip down memory lane, I regain my focus and glance down the length of my body through the gap between my shoes, seeing the glowing red and white lights of ambulance as it reverses down the alleyway. As soon as the doors open and the two men step out, I resume my 'going-into-shock' performance with some shallow coughs and fully-body twitches; my eyes trained on their approaching figures.

In mere seconds, they're on either side of me, slowly putting on their purple latex gloves.

Oh you imbeciles. There's no reason to take your time; I'm not going to bleed to death. Darting my eyes between them I see them leaning in to get a better look.

That's it, just a little closer…

"Gotcha!" I roughly whisper as my arms crisscross over my chest, stabbing and emptying the syringes into their throats simultaneously.

As they fall over onto their sides, I bolt straight up and speedily get to my feet, immediately spinning around on the balls of my feet and grabbing their ankles, dragging them toward the vehicle. Need to move quickly and restrain them before the effects of the drug wear off.

**xxxxxx**

Now that I've gotten both men into the ambulance and onto the gurneys, I delve into the right hip pocket of my cargo pants and I pull out my white latex gloves and carefully put them on, interlacing my fingers to mold the material comfortably between the webs of each digit. Next, I securely fasten each of the straps on the gurneys against their shins, stomach, and shoulders.

After unbuttoning the first few buttons of their sky blue collared-shirts as to expose their chests, I situate myself just before the cockpit entrance, right behind the crown of my victims' heads. Noticing a gradual increase of eye movement underneath their eyelids, I know it's time.

"Hello Ben. Rodger."

"H-H-How do you know our names?" Rodger foolishly asks.

Why do they ask such trivial questions? You're about to die. Wouldn't a better question to ask be 'why'? Anyway, I don't even bother answering their questions anymore.

"Helping some of your patients live and letting some of them die; making them die." I respond, completely ignoring the question as I use my scalpel to make a one-inch incision to his right cheek. Grabbing my small, skinny plastic baster, I bring it to his cheek and draw a small amount of blood. Reaching for my glass slides, I release a drop of blood onto one of them, and then gently place the other on top; watching as the minuscule blood dome collapses into a thin, circular shape. Safely putting the slides away, I turn my attention to Ben.

"So you can harvest their body parts." I continue, lacerating his left cheek with the same one-inch incision I made on Rodger's face. "My friends at the Boston Police Department have arrested the emergency room doctor who's selling them." I pause to concentrate on dripping Ben's blood onto another glass slide. "They closed the case but I know they must've had a regular supplier." I proceed, setting my scalpel and slide aside. "So I did my research and here you are." I gesture to their surroundings before reaching over with my right hand to turn the dial to charge the defibrillator.

"We were just trying—"

"NO!" I bellow, forcibly compressing my pinky fingers and thumbs against their temples. "You were just trying to help yourselves make some money." I finish, relinquishing my grip prior to clutching the fully charged paddles. "That's all." I assert before positioning the defibrillators on their chests, shocking their hearts into arrest.

After about ten seconds of flailing about, the men's bodies still, and I know it's done. Removing the paddles and hooking them back up to the machine, I look down at the lifeless bodies and breathe a deep sigh of relief; my dark passenger's craving now fully satiated after months of neglect.

For now anyway.


End file.
